Chapter Text
The motel room smelled like stale Folgers coffee, gun oil, and whatever questionable grease-soaked takeout Dean had abandoned on the nightstand three days ago.
Sam sat hunched over the laminate table, a bag of frozen peas pressed flat against the left side of his head. He looked miserable.
Dean stood by the counter, peeling the label off a warm beer bottle. "You look like crap, Sammy."
Sam lowered the peas just enough to glare out of one bloodshot eye. "Thanks, Dean."
"I'm just calling a spade a spade."
"You hit me with a wooden folding chair yesterday."
"You were possessed by a demon, Sam!" Dean threw his hands up. "What was I supposed to do, ask him nicely to vacate the premises?"
"You still hit me with a chair."
"And it worked," Dean said triumphantly, taking a swig of beer. "You're welcome."
At the foot of the sagging floral bed, Castiel sat in rigid, stoic silence, watching the brothers bounce off each other with a look of mild, quiet confusion. "Would it be beneficial if I healed your head, Sam?"
"No," Sam said instantly.
Cas frowned, his brow pulling down. "Why? It would take a fraction of a second."
"Because you've already healed me twice this week," Sam sighed, wincing as he shifted the ice pack. "And if you heal me again, Dean's going to feel like he wasted a perfectly good opportunity to use blunt force trauma on me."
Dean pointed a thumb at himself. "Damn straight."
Sam rolled his eyes, turning back to the glowing screen of his laptop. Spread across the display were four police mugshots paired with gruesome crime scene photos.
Dean's teasing tone vanished in an instant. He walked over, leaning over Sam's shoulder. "Alright. Walk me through it. What've we got?"
"Four victims in the last five weeks," Sam said, scrolling through the files. "All male, all between twenty-two and thirty. First guy was found drained behind a dive bar downtown. Second was two blocks away. Third was in an alley behind a diner." He clicked to the newest file. "Fourth one was dropped last night."
"Same MO?"
"Identical," Sam confirmed. "Drained bone-dry, two neat puncture wounds in the jugular. No defensive marks, no signs of a struggle. The local PD is calling it a blood-cult serial killer."
"Vampire," Dean muttered, jaw tightening.
Cas tilted his head from the bed, his deep voice cutting through the hum of the fluorescent lights. "It could be a rugaru."
"No," Dean said.
"Or a strix."
"No, Cas."
"A lamia, perhaps?"
"Cas."
"Yes?"
"It's a vampire," Dean said with absolute, quiet authority.
Cas stared at him for a long beat, considering the tone, before giving a single, short nod. "Ah."
"The weird part isn't the monster," Sam cut in, pulling up a digital map of the city. He zoomed in on a tight, four-block radius where red pins clustered like a bad rash.
"It's the hunting ground. Every single victim was last seen at the exact same location before they disappeared."
Dean squinted at the map, tracing the street names. At the center of the red cluster was a prominent building glowing under a street-view photo. "What is that, a warehouse?"
"It's a nightclub," Sam said, looking up at his brother. "Specifically... a gay nightclub."
A heavy, sudden silence fell over the room.
The low hum of the ice machine outside filled the space. Dean's eyes slowly drifted off the screen and over to Cas.
Cas was staring at the map. Then his blue eyes slid slowly toward Dean. Then back to the map.
"No," Dean said flatly.
Sam raised his eyebrows, a small, dangerous smile threatening to break through his miserable expression. "I didn't even say anything yet."
"You were going to."
"I was."
Dean backed away from the table, folding his arms tight across his chest. "Sammy. No. Absolutely not."
Sam leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly, but his tone was pure logic. "Dean, think about it. We don't know if the vampire is staff, a regular, or just picking off guys on their way to their cars. We can't just stroll in with flannel and sawed-offs without sticking out like a pair of thumb screws."
"So we stake the place out from the Impala!"
"We tried that with the second victim's timeline and found nothing," Sam countered. "We need eyes inside the room. Which means somebody has to go in."
"Great. You go in."
"I am currently seeing two of you, Dean," Sam said, gesturing to his bruised temple. "I can barely stand without throwing up. You need a partner."
Dean stopped. His eyes darted slowly from Sam to Castiel, who was still sitting on the edge of the bed like a statuesque trench-coated puzzle piece.
"No," Dean said, lower this time. "No way."
Cas raised a hand, small and polite. "I believe I understand the parameters of the operation."
Dean whirled on him. "No, you don't, Cas."
"We are to enter the establishment together," Cas said calmly, listing the points on his fingers. "Remain in close physical proximity. And convince the clientele that we are romantically involved so as not to draw unwanted suspicion."
Sam bit the inside of his cheek, trying—and failing—to hide his smirk. "Basically, yeah."
"Okay," Dean scoffed, pacing toward the window and dragging a hand over his face. "No. I'm not doing it."
Cas tracked him with those unnervingly sharp eyes. "Why?"
Dean stopped dead. "Because I'm not—" He cut himself off, his jaw working hard.
Cas waited. Sam waited, leaning back with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.
"I'm just not doing it," Dean muttered, pointing a stern finger at Sam. "And you—you are enjoying this way too much."
"I've been concussed for twenty-four hours because you swung a chair at my face," Sam deadpanned. "I deserve a little joy."
Cas stood up, smoothing down the lapels of his coat. "What, specifically, does 'acting romantically involved' entail in this environment?"
Dean's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "You know. Couples stuff."
"I do not."
"Cas, come on."
"I genuinely do not know the earthly social protocol for a bar of that nature, Dean."
Dean let out a low, long groan, dropping his head back against the wall. "Jesus Christ."
"Hand holding," Sam chimed in, far too helpfully. "Sitting close in a booth. Maybe dancing."
Dean snapped his head toward his brother, eyes wild. "You are making this infinitely worse."
"And," Sam added, his voice dropping into a deceptively mild tone, "if somebody tries to hit on Cas to pull him away from the room, you need to react like a jealous boyfriend. Otherwise, your cover blows, and the vampire gets another body."
Dean scoffed, shrugging his shoulders into his leather jacket with an aggressive jerk. "Yeah. Fine. Obviously."
Cas glanced sideways at Dean. "And if someone hits on Dean?"
Dean froze, his hands stalling on his zipper for half a second.
Sam caught the pause. His smile faded into something a little sharper, a little more observant. "Same thing, Cas."
"Right," Dean muttered, avoiding both of their gazes as he grabbed his keys off the dresser. "Obviously. Whatever. We go in, we spot the fang-face, we drop him, we get out. Simple."
"Simple," Sam agreed softly.
Dean swung open the motel door, the cool night air rushing into the warm room. Cas stepped up right behind him, his presence heavy and warm at Dean's back.
Dean caught the look Sam threw them from the table—that quiet, knowing Winchester look that made Dean want to punch him.
"Try to look like you actually like each other!" Sam called out as the door started to swing shut.
Dean stopped in the threshold. He slowly turned his head back around, glaring through the crack. "Sam."
"What?"
"Shut the hell up."
Sam's quiet laugh followed them out into the damp outdoor walkway.
They walked toward the elevator at the end of the motel balcony in total silence. The neon sign of the motel hummed overhead, casting pink and blue light across the wet pavement.
As Dean reached out to hit the call button, Cas spoke, his voice low against the quiet night.
"Dean."
"What, Cas?"
"If we are pretending to be a couple..." Cas hesitated, a rare note of genuine uncertainty slipping into his deep tone. "Would it be appropriate for me to hold your hand now? To practice?"
Dean's finger stilled a millimeter away from the glowing elevator button. His heart did a strange, sudden flip in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with vampires.
He looked sideways at Cas. The angel was looking back at him, utterly earnest, without a trace of hesitation or doubt.
Dean swallowed down the knot in his throat. "Sure, Cas. Practice."
The elevator doors slid open with a metallic groan. Dean stepped inside, his boots echoing on the steel floor. Cas followed right behind him, the doors sliding shut and trapping them in the small, flickering box.
Before Dean could talk himself out of it, Cas reached out. His fingers slid between Dean's—rough, calloused, and unbelievably warm.
Dean stared down at their joined hands.
It's just the case, Dean told himself as the elevator started its slow, grinding descent. It's just the cover.
He told himself that three times before the doors opened again, but his hand didn't let go.